I found out the other day
that Shrieking Eucalyptus leaves
can scream in pain,
sounding like scraping steel or porpoises.
I imagine a shadow-eyed nightbear
clinging to the tree’s arcing ribs
and lamprey-******* on a branch,
only to start at the screech
and ***** for a grip in the grease
and plummet Galileo-like
and smash on the ground:
a mass.
Anyone watching would think, with a shudder,
that screaming’s no reason to drop.

The wicker bird that used to perch
outside my mother’s cell
would creak its claws and upwards lurch
and wing a way to hell,
and trace absurd geometries
and soar ungodly high,
exceed its heart’s thermometries,
ignite, and burn, and die.
When morning came, the soothing dew
would **** its flame-stained lines
and build the wicker bird anew
to try another time.

Were I to take the specked leather grips of the rust bellows,
I’d hiss venom from its jet nozzle
to melt the heart of every moon-razed mountainside,
and the air
would shiver and hum with the heat.